


Diapente Epistula

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Drama, Futurefic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-27
Updated: 2005-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-01 09:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/354820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We live to die'¦dying as soon as we're born'¦I would happily die if I could truly live first.  Closest I have gotten to that, to living with that burning clarity of what is true and real was after coming back from death, after all.  Clarktaste in my mouth, Clarksmell on my body, mind as polluted and dirty as the river water I was pulled out of, where I belonged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diapente Epistula

## Diapente Epistula

by lostmarble

<http://lostmarble.deviantart.com>

* * *

Diapente Epistula 

Quibus ut quod eram glacialis et gelu suscipio ut egelidus et tabesco 

Caught the plane the next morning to flee to the city. What did I find waiting for me in the shadows? 

Power and drugs and clubs and slutty dancing to make things that should be solid into jello and all things Sex become hard. And sex...sex like war, like fighting, because the burning want--lust--and tearing need is the same. All's fair in love and war, especially since they're really the same in essence--making love is sex is aggression, a hard knot that ties up your body and mind, aching because nobody, nobody should be able to bend like that, but for some reason, we all want to try. Maybe with just a little more stretching...? 

So. 

Sex and ...notlove. Distinct sense of notlove. Not what I want. 

I want...I desire...and perhaps I love. In that altogether non platonic fashion that I have been told to avoid--actually, platonic was bad too--and now...now I'm thinking that perhaps my father tried all these years to deny to me what he could not have could not give--live. In any capacity. 

Passion. 

So great, a ring of fire, and burns a hole through me, never-ending, and I don't want it to, masochist that I am. Sadomasochist--I want to share the pain, need to share it. Want to see his eyes as it tears through him, and the music swirls around me like a cloud... 

"We touch, the dark begins to stir   
We can't go back to where we were..." 

"Remember when I moved in you?   
The holy dark was moving too   
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah." 

Dark. Dark fire and a "holy dark" that consumes from the inside...the black hole of emotion, made hot. Burn me as the wine and firewater flow through my veins, it seems I'll be the first to spontaneously combust. 

Can't be coherent. Getting less so the more I write, is the emotional catharsis more inebriating than the two bottles of champagne? I'm too debauched at this point to remember what kind it was...a true mark of how far gone I am. Why do I always write when I'm drunk? Too poetic, not enough said about what really happens, just pure emotion (the only thing about me that is, in fact, pure?), temperamental as a spring morning, or is it a summer hurricane? Writing now like I talk when I'm drunk, circuitous, confusing, metaphorical, but even less coherent, should such a thing be possible. Pure mental train of thought. Unadulterated, unfiltered (unlike my water...unlike everything else about me...damn) 

Just found the champagne bottles before I left that town. Both Cristal--ones I was saving, secretly hoping to get Clark so trashed on New Years' that he would kiss me at midnight. Oh well, I can buy more. 

At least I only get drunk in style. 

Ah, shit. What ever I touch turns to shit...that bitch--Fate--is laughing again...I always wanted to be like a character from antiquity...thought it would be Alexander the Great...but no. Midas, gone wrong. But when was I ever greedy for shit? Power, not shit. Still time, though...perhaps I can be both before I'm thirty? Or maybe I will burn in the ruins of Troy, like Paris. But he was already dead. So I can die before my empire crumbles...great. Clark will be my Trojan horse. 

"One more disaster I can add to my   
Generous supply" 

"My road of good intentions   
Led where such roads always lead" 

Damn it to hell! 

Wicked. 

I am. 

They tell me so often, how can it not eventually become the truth? 

And I saw it, as well. Wicked, that is. Just tonight, before coming back to this hotel room and slugging back alcohol like a teenager. 

Do you know how it ends? 

I did...we all do. Ephelba, the Wicked Witch, melts. 

I feel like I'm burning, not melting, but she sizzled when she melted, so perhaps it did burn, after all. Fire, water, air...never enough air. 

Her lover dies, too, the only one that has ever loved her. Truly loved her...dies because of her and her desire for rebellion, all-consuming need to overthrow the most powerful man in the land. 

Even as I hope that that cannot be me, I am haunted by another parallel (two lines that go on forever and never intersect...) 

"Let his flesh not be torn   
Let his blood leave no stain   
Though they beat him   
Let him feel no pain   
Let his bones never break   
And however they try   
To destroy him   
Let him never die" 

I hit Clark. He didn't die. Have I condemned him to be immortal? The horror of never knowing death. 

Rationally, yes, I know, I couldn't have hit him...but I swear to you I did...but my brain cannot think on that now, alcohol is cushioning all of the prickly subjects, making the sharp details fuzzy... 

Couldn't curse him so...wouldn't... 

Hell. 

It would be hell to be immortal and never to see an end. Future stretching on and on and on and on, no blissful release, as everything and everyone you love and hate dies. (What is the difference in the end? "Fine line between..." sounds like one of Jonathan Kent's platitudes. But we have to love before we can hate--hate is created through a sense of betrayal, and only those we love do we trust enough so that they can betray us). 

We live to die...dying as soon as we're born...I would happily die if I could truly live first. Closest I have gotten to that, to living with that burning clarity of what is true and real was after coming back from death, after all. Clarktaste in my mouth, Clarksmell on my body, mind as polluted and dirty as the river water I was pulled out of, where I belonged. 

Perhaps I will never die, if you have to live to do so. 

Surrounded by the graves of those I love, judgment day, and I, the sole soul left to be judged. 

Will he be there with me? 

"Better pray for your sins   
'Cuz the gay messiah's coming..." 

What prompted this lovely introspection? Can't I just go back to drunken dreams of fast and slow sex, green eyes and curly brown hair, hard bodies and whispered oaths? 

No. 

Can't. 

God, make it stop. 

I've never asked for anything before, didn't think you existed, but either you do or fate does, I prefer you because fate is inescapable, but you allow room for change... 

"Maybe there's a God above,   
And all I ever learned from love   
Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you." 

Some people are just meant to be alone... 

"Thought that maybe I'd really love being alone-- Everybody but Heaven knows how I was wrong. Oh, Lord, what have I done to myself? What have I done to myself  
In this vicious world?" 

Fate. I knew it all along. 

I'm kneeling by the starched, foreign hotel bed in an unfamiliar room. Offer up a prayer. 

Come, rest your dark head on my pillow, wreathed with thorns that will never harm you, eyes as green as sin and as pure as bright feathers from the wings of an angel...you are a my scourge and my passion, my damnation and, perhaps, my evil angel. 

Nunquam transeat a me calix iste verumtamen. 

I demand it. 

Now and ever, unto the ages of ages. Amen. 


End file.
